He arrived just as the news was beginning. The killing of Mrs Roy was the first item. There was an interview with Mrs Harriet Carlton, one of the dog walkers who was present at the scene. Having described what she said must’ve been a savage attack, she said: ‘I think the police are looking for a cyclist. That’s what I heard anyway. I can’t give you any details, because they asked me not to, but there was an awful lot of blood in the snow.’

Gillard blew a sigh. Claire Mulholland would be incandescent. She had interviewed the woman, whose horrible, yappy terrier had contaminated the crime scene, and would certainly have emphasised how important it was not to go blabbing to the press. Yet here she was, speculating like crazy. There wasn’t too much background, but the presenter trailed a change to the schedule with a special half-hour BBC Two programme on Mrs Roy on at ten p.m.

Harry Roy came back in, and was embraced by his younger sister. ‘We’ve got to get through this,’ she said.

He nodded, and kissed the top of her head. ‘Thank you, Kiki. You keep us all sane.’ He settled down, alternating between looking at the TV and checking his own mobile which, judging by the incessant audible pings, was being peppered with messages.

While they were watching the news, the front door went again. Two women came into the lounge, and Harry and his sister stood up to greet them. One was a slender and elegant Indian in her late thirties in a black trouser suit. The other was a willowy, mid-thirties redhead with milky skin, wearing a rugby shirt and ripped and faded jeans. Ignoring the police officers, the younger woman went into a group hug with Harry and his younger sister, cooing and stroking both their heads. The older woman stood apart from the others, glancing briefly at Gillard, then checking her phone before stepping out to answer a call.

Gillard, alert to the fault lines within families, was fascinated by this group dynamic. After a minute, the redhead turned to them and said: ‘I’m sorry, let me introduce myself. I’m Morag Fairburn. I’m a friend of the family, and the operations manager at Empire of Spice.’ Morag had a delicious Scottish burr to her voice. Harry and Kiara continued to converse quietly, not in English.

Once he had introduced himself and Gabby, Gillard asked: ‘Who is the other lady?’

‘Oh, that’s Prisha, the eldest,’ Morag said.

‘She’s the sensible one,’ Kiara interjected, leading her brother out of the room.

‘And I understand Mrs Roy was a widow?’ Gillard asked Morag.

‘Yes, Dr Roy had a stroke in 2008, after which he passed over day-to-day control of the business to his wife, and he sadly passed away in 2017 at the age of eighty-four.’

The front door bell went again, and Gillard heard it being answered. Whoever it was who came in had a deep voice and spoke in an Indian language to a woman. They did not come into the room.